


i am still a beast at bay

by potter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Identity Porn, Interrogation, M/M, Minor Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, Reality Hopping, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 03:42:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potter/pseuds/potter
Summary: "The boundaries of dunamancy reach far," Essek will tell him later. "But no, I do not think they stretch to include the feats you describe.""Ah," Caleb will say, and he will not speak further.Someone familiar is sent across realities to question Caleb. It doesn't go well.





	i am still a beast at bay

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: mild dubcon elements, non-graphic torture

"The boundaries of dunamancy reach far," Essek will tell him, later - much later, because while Caleb is an excellent liar, he'll need time to construct an excuse even approaching plausibility for a question like this. "But no, I do not think they stretch to include the feats you describe." 

"Ah," Caleb will say, and he will not speak further. 

Caleb does not speak now. 

The room is dark. He requested lanterns from the innkeep, but they're back on Empire soil, and even at its most smudged map edges a man who throws his lot in with a tiefling, a goblin, Beauregard, a half-orc, and 'whatever that pink monstrosity is' doesn't get much more in the way of hospitality than a cramped room mostly free of fleas. The Crownsguard has not been called, though, and the looks, however hostile, didn't come to anything more. Caleb didn't bother asking again.

And so the room is dark, and the man at the end of Caleb's bed is in shadow. Whatever moonlight has forced its way through the unwashed windows wastes its light on the familiar shapes of Fjord and Caduceus, leaving the man, the stranger, the shadow, just that. 

The spell which binds his body feels at once alien and intimate. Caleb's component pouch is lying uselessly on the bedside table; Caleb's arms are trapped uselessly beneath his scratchy sheets. There is silence in his head where silver bells should sing. 

The man doesn't move. Not yet. What little Caleb can see suggests that should he choose to, he could have a knife at or in Caleb's throat without much more effort than blowing out a candle, if one had been supplied. 

"I would ask," Caleb says, his voice less than a whisper, "that you let my companions live." 

The man steps to the side of Caleb's bed and into the light. Moonlight carves his features bright and stark, like the white granite statues adorning the halls of the Cerberus Assembly. "Ask whatever you'd like, Caleb Widogast," he says in Zemnian. "I can't promise I'll listen." 

_Ah_, Caleb thinks. Not a shadow, then, but a ghost. A ghost who has stolen his face. 

It's almost a relief that the madness has returned. Because this is what it must be, never truly gone as he had foolishly - humiliatingly - hoped, but instead lurking in the shadows with its haunches up high, its muzzle down low. He can feel the warm blood in his throat as he stares up at the doppelgänger, who crouches down beside the bed so that his face is level with Caleb's own. With his own. 

Only it isn't his own. Not entirely: now that he's come closer, Caleb can see that what he had first mistaken for a specter of his own living soul bears some small differences. This version of Caleb has apparently decided that his (their?) experiments with facial hair were a success; he's trimmed it just a few hairs short of Empire regulation, and the defiance frames his features well. He wears beaten red leathers, a color Caleb had never earned the right to don. It’s surprising, given that they’re apparently the same age - but how many times were he and his friends told of their talent and their promise? (He wonders if he should be proud of his ghost. If congratulations are in order.) 

There isn't enough time to compare the bags beneath their eyes, but the doppelgänger might have him beat. The scorch marks on their palms, too, would require an outside panel to adjudicate. No gray, not yet. No smile lines, either. _Some things never change_, Caleb thinks, and a wild laugh rears up in his throat. 

“I'd ask your name, but I believe I already know." 

Bren laughs. Caleb is surprised to see teeth; he’d expected a mouth full of bristling knives. "You've forgotten so much, Liebling, I wouldn't be offended." Caleb doesn't even try to hide the flinch: _mein Liebling, Master Ikithon whispers, and Caleb strains upwards like a newly-tamed dog so that his teacher might stroke his cheek. _"Oh. Seems you remember some things." 

Caleb feels the scream he has been holding deep in his chest for fifteen years grow. 

Fjord and Caduceus sleep on undisturbed. Fjord mutters something in an accent Caleb still doesn't entirely trust; Caduceus's tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth, lapping at the air. Bren follows his gaze, and the smile turns into what is unquestionably a smirk. 

"Don't worry for your... companions." The smug pause makes something hot and feverish wriggle in Caleb's stomach. He tries to look away, but Bren knows what it looks like when they try and hide their shame. "I wasn’t sent here to upset your playthings. Their sleep is deep and dreamless. When I depart my spells will, too, and they’ll awake as calm as creatures of their ilk may be. Trust me, I know what I'm doing." 

The pride in Bren's voice leaves Caleb's mouth dry. It's a pride he's familiar with, borne out of Imperial hymns and the red-gold flag his mother hung over their modest hearth, out of hours spent knee-deep in the cold river behind Master Ikithon's house, repeating the names of the Dwendal kings and queens and the mages who served them in an endless chattering litany.

_Is your body the same as my mine? _Caleb wants to ask. _Did you tear him out of the marrow, too, or is does he still lurk like a poison in your blood? Because I dug the crystals out of my arms, I went mad to purge his voice from my brain, and still he whispers in my ears that I am a traitor, and that I must atone._

Instead, he says: "How are you here?" 

Bren now sits at the edge of the bed. In reality it’s just a matter of inches, but it feels as though the tiger’s cage has opened and he’s been pushed bodily within. “I could ask you the same question." 

Caleb shoves himself up. The spell allows this, although his body feel heavy and sluggish. Bren looks amused as he tries to stop himself toppling to the floor. He draws his legs up to his chest - an attempt at a defensive crouch, although it makes him look more like a frightened child. 

He thinks quickly. Even without his components he has spell options; knowing the Vollstrecker, though, any attempt at harming the duplicate would fizzle in his mouth. _They carved warding glyphs into each other's backs, preparation for the tattoos which would one day sit like mantles between their shoulder-blades. Astrid and Bren cried, but Eodwulf's face was blank as he wiped away their blood. _

"How," Caleb repeats, "are you here?" 

Bren waves a hand as though batting away a buzzing fly. A pedantic question, to wonder how your wayward duplicate might force himself into your bedroom at night. “The Assembly finds it useful to keep track of our… sibling realities. We’ve always been good at bending space to our will, you know that. It’s simply a matter of finding the right twinned souls at the right time, and of course once I climbed high enough in the ranks I was a clear candidate for- Do I need to explain it all, _Caleb? _I thought we were smart.”

Caleb remains calm. Caleb must remain calm. "Then _why_?” 

(Caleb must ignore the jealousy surging through his heart, that this upstart has reaped the rewards that were _his_, that this man could wear his face and claim his name and kill his parents and _take the knowledge_ that he sacrificed everything, _everything _for, only to lose it _all_-)

“It's obvious, isn’t it? They told me you went insane, but I didn’t know it was this bad." Bren leans forward, bracing a hand against the mattress. "When this is over, I'd love to look at our brains. Do you think they'll be the same? Or- all those years spent drooling over yourself in that backwater asylum, is yours just be a big chunk of rotted meat? Like his, hmm?” He gestures vaguely towards Caduceus, who smacks his lips in his sleep. 

Caleb is silent. Bren's eyes narrow. "What little our timeline knows of yours," he says finally, "we know at least that war against the Crick bitch persists here, too. We are also aware that the strange-shaped orbs are the key to their power. And, Widogast… We know _you_ have one." 

He lands this final blow gracelessly, a fighter who doesn't need to check to see that his opponent has been laid low. But Caleb just feels... disappointment. At what little knowledge the all-seeing Empire really possesses; at how blindly both realities focus their gaze on Leylas, while the far greater opponent waits to crush them all.

He knows his own sins - his pride, his arrogance - well. But to himself so assured of his superiority only to fall so short of the truth - Caleb doesn't know if he’s loathed himself before as much as he does in this moment. 

But there are other, more important matters staring him unblinking in the face. He attempts to keep his voice measured. Knows that this man, of all people across all realities, will hear the bluff. "You're mistaken, Vollstrecker. The object you’ve come for is lost to us. It has been for some time." 

Caleb hadn't even heard or seen Bren cast the truth spell, but something tightens around his throat like an arcane collar. Still, the words come out clear and true. Bren's mouth tightens. He searches Caleb's face, but Caleb has a better chance of turning into an ancient red dragon than he does lying to this man, Zone or not.

"Well," Bren says finally, his voice clipped, "where is it?" 

"I don't know," Caleb answers truthfully. "It was taken from us by a powerful creature, and now I can only assume it rests in their hands. Perhaps," and he smiles grimly, "you would like to open this damaged brain to see if you can excavate the truth? I can't promise you’ll find much more than delusion and insanity there, but, what was it Astrid used to say? It's always worth a try." 

"Don't say her name." 

"Why not? I loved- love her as much as you do. More, perhaps." 

Even without dunamancy he would have been able to see the blow coming. Bren's fingernails are sharp; Caleb imagines explaining the scratches and can't help a feral grin. "Using your fists? Isn't that Eodwulf's job?" 

"Who the fuck is Eodwulf?" 

This hurts more than the slap. It’s made worse by the confused, furious look on Bren's face. His double is kneeling on the bed now. His hand awkwardly lingers in the space between Caleb's chest and his own, as though he hasn't decided whether to slap him again, or touch his heart to check its beating. 

A better person would look towards Bren with an eye for pity. Caleb has never claimed to be good. "Ikithon's still got a talent for memory obfuscation, it seems. I'd say I felt sorry for you, but we would both know it for a lie." 

(Later, he will wonder about Eodwulf - did he somehow manage a failure worse than Caleb's, so that he lost the right of memory? Or did he simply die, as all Vollstrecker longed to, in battle or in darkness, only for Master Ikithon to decide it was easier to erase his name than to tolerate pathetic wailing from those who should know better? For now, he allows himself to enjoy the way Bren's face crumples, if only for a moment.)

"Stop trying to distract me. We knew you would do this. We knew your Dynasty masters would teach you how to evade, how to hide. That's all you know how to do, _Widogast_," Bren coos, although his expression is still stormy. "To duck your head and take orders from your betters, and turn _everything _they give you back on them. The Cricks must know what you're planning to do, right? All of their dark magics, they must have seen the stain in your soul. Do they pretend they trust you?" He rests his hand on Caleb's knee - squeezes, so that the nails dig in deep. "Do they invite you into their hidey-holes, promise you all their spells and secrets if you keep your mouth shut and your legs spread?” 

Caleb’s breathing and Bren's voice have both become steadily louder. Still, Caduceus and Fjord do not move. Caleb doesn’t know whether that’s a blessing or not. 

Bren’s smile is savage. “Oh, we know all about your Shadowhand. Can you imagine the _looks_ people have been giving me since word got around I'm bending over for a _drow_? For a _Crick_ drow?” He leans forward. There is something unhinged in his eyes, or maybe that's just Caleb’s reflection. “I wanted to redeem our good name, but Master Ikithon made me promise not to hurt you too much. Besides, it’s not really your name anymore, is it?” 

“It’s nice to know Ikithon still thinks of me.” 

Another slap. This one sends Caleb’s head to the side; as the stars disappear, Bren leans over his chest, drawing a red leather gloved against his ribcage. 

“Astrid suggested that I take your heart." His tone is conversational, light, almost. This close, Caleb can smell him: horse sweat and rot-florals, books gone to mildew and Astrid’s perfume, _home_. “She's never liked the idea of timelines, our beauty, doesn't like that there could be a version of her that forsook her vows. Fortunately,” he presses experimentally down on Caleb's ribs, right where a bog troll club cracked him wide open a month ago. He pauses to _laugh_ at Caleb's whimper. “Fortunately we haven't found any universes where she does anything less than her duty.” He cups Caleb’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Us, on the other hand…” 

"Did Mama cry for you when she noticed the smoke? Did Papa beg for help?” Caleb's sneer looks almost as good as Bren’s. His chest is burning. “At least I broke. At least my mind wouldn’t allow me to live with what I- what we did.”

“Do you think that makes you a better man?" Something glints at Bren's fingertips. “You broke yourself, you repaired yourself, you pulled yourself out of the muck and made yourself into… Into what? Into a traitor to your homeland, your people, your family. And you know what traitors do, Widogast?” 

_"What do traitors do, Ermendrud? _

_Master Ikithon’s hand curls around the back of his neck. Astrid hides her face in her hands, shuddering, but not sobbing. Eodwulf’s shoulders tremble. The woman screams. Caleb meets her stricken gaze, and does not look away. _

_“Traitors die.” _

Lightning lacerates the not-yet healed wound. Caleb wails like a child. “Where is the orb?” 

“I don’t… I don’t _know_.” 

The arcane collar tightens. Bren's fingertips spark again. “Where… is… the... _orb_."

Caleb pants through the aftershocks. Bren watches him twitch dispassionately.

“Please…"

“What's the matter,” Bren sneers, “cat got your tongue?”

And- and Caleb said that, last week, snarled it as a spectral paw clawed through an arm, but he said it in Common, and the arm was holding Beauregard three feet off the floor, and it was attached to a creature which had moments ago flung Jester to the ground like she was nothing. And she is not nothing, she is Caleb’s friend, and she loves her blink dog and honey bees and ribbon candies. And Bren will never know that, the same way Caleb will never know if Eodwulf grew into his cheekbones, or if Astrid's stutter went away.

And then Caleb does not speak, because the world is lightning, and pain, and Bren’s unblinking eyes. 

The hurt subsides with aching slowness. Caleb stares up at a point just past Bren’s forehead, dry- and dull-eyed. “I do not know the location of the object you are seeking.”

Bren leans back on his haunches, resting against Caleb’s still-drawn knees. Caleb is somewhat surprised at the warmth of his body. “No fun, are you?” He sounds bored.

“What did he do to us? What did Ikithon turn you _into_?”

The crystals beneath Bren’s skin are barely visible, the small, rigid bumps only noticeable to those who know how to look. Caleb used to have nightmares that they would come alive at night and gnaw apart his veins. “What we were made for.”

“But don’t you miss it, Bren? Before we were taken to his house, before we were turned into this… thing. Don't you miss it?”

“I don’t remember enough to miss.” 

“He’s going to break you.”

The laugh punching its way through Bren’s lungs comes out like a scream. Caleb imagines Bren would make the same sound of he was to reach out right now and twist his neck clean broken. Their bones are so delicate, Eodwulf loved to tease him, like a little bird, heartbeat fluttering against hollow ribs. 

“We were broken before we were born. This… _redemption _you’re playing at… It’s pathetic. You think you’re better than me. Don’t you _dare_ try to deny it, I know our _mind_, I know our _heart_, and I know that you would kill _every single creature_ you call friend to trade places with me, _Bren_.” Caleb’s mouth tightens, and Bren’s expression - shifting from frantic to terrified to furious like a lightning bug throwing itself against the glass - solidifies into something much more familiar to Caleb. Something dark, and slithering, and leering. Something cruel. 

The way Bren looks at Caleb - the way he looked at Caleb as he twisted under his lightning spell, twitching in silent agony - makes Caleb’s blood run colder than anything else tonight. 

(Save for the not insignificant part of him which whispers to reach a hand up so that he can touch Bren’s cheek, or draw Bren's hand down so that he could feel the warmth of his chest, and beg him, in a soft and pretty tone, _you were right. Take me with you. I want to go home._)

Bren leans down, his mouth brushing the shell of Caleb’s ear. “At least in my timeline I was never a coward. I was never a worm.” He grabs Caleb’s chin, and rests his cheek on Caleb’s as he forces their gazes towards a peacefully sleeping Fjord. “I was never a whore.” 

Caleb whispers, “Does Ikithon know that?” 

The slap feels good. The kiss does, too. 

Caleb bites down hard on Bren’s bottom lip, and he knows that he’ll relish the blood as long as he remains alive. Bren either moans or growls, or both. Caleb swallows the sound whole, and licks another from Bren's mouth. He hasn't kissed anyone in five years. He can't account for Bren, but it seems as though they at least share inexperience: it’s less kissing than biting, licking, snarling against each other’s lips like feral creatures. They don’t break apart, not even to breathe._ Conjoined_, Caleb thinks, and the laugh clogs his throat like ash.

Bren grinds down, so, so slowly, and Caleb’s hips rise to meet him. He isn’t surprised to feel himself get hard. He’s a deeply broken creature, much more a monster than any of his friends. Why wouldn’t the first thing in years to bring him to arousal be his fanatical, deranged shadow-self? 

“Thought so,” he hears Bren whisper. He bites down again in retaliation, and gets harder at Bren’s surprised cry. 

Bren hauls himself up so that he’s leaning against Caleb’s legs. Caleb, without thinking, lets his knees fall apart, and Bren musters up a sneer, although the effect is lessened by the color high in his cheeks. Caleb doesn’t know what his own expression is, but it makes Bren grin. Caleb can’t look away.

“At least you’ve learned how to take it well,” Bren murmurs in a tone they both know others mistake for fond. 

“Takes one to know one,” Caleb starts, but his voice is swallowed with another biting kiss.

At some point his trousers are shoved down. At some point Bren’s breeches are undone. At some point a cantrip neither of them will admit to knowing is whispered, and Bren is inside of him. It hurts, and for a second Caleb thinks that Bren is slowing his movements in sympathy for the pain, but, no, it was just to make him wail louder when he drives in once more. He thrusts in turns frantically, and then torturously slow. For a moment he matches Fjord’s gentle, rumbling snores, and Caleb is so warm he might become a fireball right there.

Bren snarls something as he fucks into Caleb, a Zemnian phrase Caleb has to translate into Common before he understands. When Caleb reaches up to touch his chest - an impulsive gesture he will later spend sleepless nights reliving in hazy, aroused shame - he is swatted away. Bren leans down to lick a stripe from his chin to his mouth. He leaves a red brand behind. Caleb hopes it won't wash out, that every time he’s forced to catch a glimpse of himself he sees the reminder tattooed on his face: _this body is not a human. This body is a creature that ate your heart._

Caleb can’t tell if he cries out as he comes, or if that’s Bren reaching into his chest to steal his voice and the rest of him, too. Bren doesn’t stop his movements, even as he spills himself into Caleb. He continues to thrust through the aftershock, harder, and faster, and mindless. He pants, his eyes blank, looking like a man possessed. Looking like Caleb. 

As the spell which gave Bren purchase in this reality begins to waver, he leans over Caleb, pressing their foreheads together in what must be a perfect parody of intimacy. “I'm going to come back,” he whispers. “I’m going to come back, and I’m going to break your ribs apart, and I’m going to break your friends, too, and your little Shadowhand, and every single thing you’ve ever pretended to love, and when I’m done you'll beg me on your knees for the honor of betraying them.” 

“Tell Astrid I miss her,” Caleb whispers back, as the spell scatters Bren's body into shadows. Fjord and Caduceus sleep on peacefully, and Caleb lies alone with the darkness, and with his frenzied, beating heart.


End file.
